The Tears of a Monster, The Kiss of a Man
by GoldenRoya
Summary: "How do you save her? Why it's simple, dear Rumple. You just have to cry. One tear from your eye sets her free." The voice had come in a dream, a promise to restore his Belle. But if he could not find her, how could Gold hope to free her? An alternative Belle/Gold reunion, as seen through the eyes of Emma Swan.


_Well. This is what happens when you write something and then wait too long to post it. Everything suddenly becomes obsolete and you're firmly in the realm of AU. Darn it. Not that this is a _bad _thing, mind; I quite enjoy my Belle/Gold ending much better than the shows'. Though don't tell the show producers that! (Needless to say, I don't own a single second of OUaT). _

_I originally wrote this piece as the penultimate chapter of _Dreams and Tears, _but since it's taking me so darn long to write said story (and this part of the story has been turned into AU _anyway_), I figured I would post it as a separate entity. Many thanks to my beta, Kathryn Hart! I do hope you enjoy, and please review! Reviews are my happy ending. _:)

* * *

"There's something wrong at the hospital."

Sheriff Emma Swan looked up and blinked in surprise at the man standing in front of her, turning her gaze at the doors and then back at him. "I could have sworn I locked those," she said, a hint of accusation in her voice.

Mister Gold was not going to be distracted so easily, however. "There is something very wrong at the hospital," he repeated, "and as sheriff, it's your job to investigate."

Emma waved at her inbox, whose papers had overtaken the box and were starting to spill over the desk. "So file a report. I'm busy."

"Oh, yes." Gold's voice dripped sarcasm. "I'm sure the paperwork for rescuing kittens from trees is a very lengthy process."

"It was from the toe of a boot," Emma said, stung. "And most of this," she waved at the papers, "is from that little snafu with Mary Margaret. Which _you_ compounded with your double-talk and back-room deals. Don't look at me like that," she glared, "I know it, even if I don't have proof. You have a lot of balls to come in here and demand something of me after what you put my best friend through."

Gold ignored that. "But I'm not coming as myself," he replied, firmly. "I'm coming as a concerned citizen. As I said, there is something wrong at the hospital, and I feel strongly that it should be addressed by the town's resident authority with the power to take action. You, dear," he clarified. He seemed utterly unfazed by Emma's death glower.

"So file a report," she replied, evenly, "and I will get to it as time allows." She bent back over the sheet currently making her eyes go blurry and proceeded to ignore Gold as best she could.

His presence did not fade from her vicinity, however, and she looked up, fully prepared to be annoyed. The impulse died when she saw the look on his face.

Gold was clutching his cane in both hands, knuckles going white. His dark eyes radiated pure anguish. "Please," he said, his voice kept even only by an immense exertion of will. "It's important."

Emma set her pen down. "All right," she said. She was wary of being played - again - but she was sure that no one was that good of an actor. Gold seemed genuinely distressed. She indicated the chair across from her. "Tell me why you think the hospital has a problem."

Gold sank into the chair and proceeded to spin a tale of lights in the basement, weird sounds, flickering power, secretive guards and medical personnel, and a door he couldn't get through.

Emma's eyebrow lifted halfway through the narrative and stayed raised. "So basically," she said when he wound down, "what you're saying is that you've been watching the hospital for days, trying to break in, and stalking the staff?"

She was expecting a snarky reply. What she was _not_ expecting was what she got, which was Mister Gold slamming his cane down so hard against the floor that it nearly bent. "Do not be flippant with me, Miss Swan," he said, his cold voice entirely at odds with the violence of his reaction. "This is a matter of deadly importance."

"Why?" Emma demanded. "What's so important about lights in the basement?"

Gold leaned across the desk, gaze intense. "Because _they shouldn't be there._ There isn't a room on that side of the building, not below ground floor. It's not on any of the floor plans. The only way anyone can tell that something is there is because there _is_. "

Emma looked at him askance. "You're telling me there's a secret room in the basement, and that someone installed _windows_?"

"Who would notice?"

"You, obviously."

Gold waved a dismissive hand. "Aye, me. But I'm a suspicious bastard who doesn't know when to keep my nose out of other peoples' business. This is serious, Emma."

"Why? Give me one good reason."

The pawnbroker shifted uncomfortably. "Because I think that's where Regina kept Kathryn while she was missing all that time," he said at last. "And I'm not sure it's been emptied out yet."

_That_ got Emma's attention. She sat up straight. "You think she's keeping more people in there?" she asked, alarmed.

Gold nodded. "I can take you there right now," he said, making to stand, but Emma was past him before he could get far.

"Thanks for the tip, Gold, but I can get there myself."

"But I could help!" he protested as Emma deposited him on the sidewalk and bolted for her Bug.

"Thanks-but-no," she told him, climbing in and starting the engine. "You're not my deputy, Gold. Thanks for the tip, but you don't belong in this."

Gold stared at her. "I _do_ belong in this," he told her. "More than you know. I think... I know the woman Regina has trapped there."

Emma frowned at him through her car window. "Then that's double the reason why you shouldn't be involved. Go home, Gold. I'll call you there when I know what's happening." With that, she drove off, leaving the pawnbroker standing forlorn on the sidewalk.

* * *

She suffered her first check in the waiting room of the hospital, when she realized that she didn't know, exactly, which door it was that Gold had said he couldn't get through. She was staring, frustrated, at the banks of electronically-sealed doors when she heard someone limp up behind her.

"And what are you looking for, young lady?" a voice asked at her shoulder.

She turned around to see a man in a cervical collar wielding a walker standing there. "Mr. French!" she exclaimed, recognizing the man that Gold had nearly beaten to death. "What brings you here?"

Mr. French nodded at the nurses station. "Rehab," he said, succinctly. "Physical therapy really takes it out of ya, but it's worth it; getting better every week. And to what do we owe the pleasure of your company?"

Emma hesitated. "I got a tip," she said, evasively, eyeing the doors speculatively. _Gold is probably just yanking my chain,_ she thought, uncharitably.

French tipped his head towards the door on the end. "Does it have anything to do with Regina's frequent visits?"

"...what?"

French shrugged. "Every week, regular as clockwork, the mayor's down here. Punches in a code on that door there, goes through, comes back in fifteen minutes. I always thought it was some relative she was visiting, but..."

"...but?"

"But no one else ever goes through that door. Not during the daytime, anyway, and believe me, when you're stuck in a wheelchair with nothing else to watch, you really get to know the ebb and flow of the unit."

Emma eyed the door speculatively. "Hm. Did you ever happen to catch the code?"

French held up a scrap of paper to her. A number was scribbled on one side. "Funny you should ask..."

* * *

The door opened onto a set of darkened stairs. Emma pulled out her gun and proceeded cautiously. No telling _what_ Regina had down here, but the sheriff wasn't taking any chances. She had to give Gold this, though: the stairs certainly didn't look like they belonged in any hospital Emma Swan had ever seen. Dark, unfinished, more than a hint of damp... she was surprised that such an atmosphere was allowed anywhere near a hospital, even in a basement.

"Who are you?" demanded a clipped voice, imperiously.

Emma looked up to find a nurse staring at her over the desk. Emma knew she was a nurse because of her white uniform and starched cap. _What is this, the 1960's?_ The last time she'd seen a getup like that - outside of the sexy versions worn by vixens to Halloween parties - was in _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest._ The woman even had the bright red lipstick and pinched expression.

"I said," the woman repeated, "_Who. Are. You?_"

Emma holstered her gun. "Emma Swan, Sheriff," she said. "Who are you?"

"I'm the head nurse," replied the woman. "And what are you doing here?"

"Investigating." Swiveling her head, Emma took in their surroundings. The desk was situated right in a hallway, making the stairwell into a sort of antechamber-_c__um_-office, with the desk mostly blocking off the corridor behind it. She moved to pass the desk, but the nurse was suddenly blocking her way, a vast pair of magnificent bosoms right in Emma's face.

"Staff only," she said, perfunctorily.

Emma flashed her badge. "I said I'm the Sheriff," she emphasized.

The bosoms didn't budge an inch. "And I said Staff Only," the nurse replied.

It was a standoff, with neither woman willing to give quarter. Death Glare challenged Icy Authority, and it was anyone's guess as to who would break first.

A scream shattered the hallway.

Emma was behind the desk before the nurse could move, bolting down the dim corridor before the echoes faded, only to be replaced by another shriek, just as loud.

She skidded to a halt before a door marked 'Water Treatment Facility.' The screams came from there, but it was locked, the doorknob resolutely refusing to turn in Emma's hand.

"Open it," she ordered the nurse, who had followed her.

The woman glared.

The sheriff was through with red tape and heel-dragging. "Either you unlock this door or I shoot it open. Now!"

Stiffly, frowning, the nurse produced a bundle of keys from her pocket. She slowly fiddled with them and Emma lost her patience.

Grabbing the keys, she jammed a random one into the lock and twisted. It opened.

The room was made of concrete and cinderblocks, the floor sloping from all directions towards a drain at the center. A big man in hospital scrubs stood by the door, open flask forgotten in one hand as he turned to stare at the interlopers. A second man hadn't noticed them yet; he cradled a fire hose in both hands with the ease of one accustomed to the motion. The nozzle was trained on the other end of the room, where a young woman, sputtering and crying, crouched awkwardly. Her long brown hair was plastered to her head, her white patient garments clinging wetly to her body, looking almost blue in the dim lighting, water streaming off her to the floor. The hollow chugging of the drain was an eerie counterpoint to the second man's laughter as he reached for a valve.

Emma's hand stopped him, striking his wrist hard enough that he dropped the hose.

"'ey…! What gives…?"

But the blonde was past him, kneeling beside the girl. The reason for her half-crouch was instantly obvious; one wrist was encased in a leather restraint, attached to a bolt in the wall above her head. She couldn't fully kneel or turn, just an awkward, half-protective huddle against the cinder blocks. The girl cringed back from Emma with a cry, turning her face away sharply, as if expecting a blow.

"Shh…shh, it's okay," Emma soothed, touching her shoulder. "It's all right, I'm not going to hurt you, I promise." She reached up and tugged at the restraint. These things were supposed to come off easily, but the water and, she could now see, certain modifications made a simple removal impossible. "You," she said, pointing at the big man she had seen when she first came in. "Get this thing off her. I don't care how, just get it off." Orders given, she turned back to her patient.

"Honey? Honey, I'm Emma. What's your name?" she asked, seeking eye contact with the young woman. A flickering of eyes let her know that she was heard. "It's okay," Emma reassured her. "You're safe now. It's okay."

The big man appeared behind them with a pair of bolt cutters, the nurse at his elbow. He snipped the short links attaching the restraint to the wall and retired back to the fire hose with his friend. The young woman brought her arm down slowly, stiffly, hiccuping and sniffing as she cradled it against her chest.

Emma glared at the nurse. "Who is she? And what have you been doing to her?"

The woman's lips tightened into a thin, disapproving line. "She is a mental patient. Your interference may have set her therapy back weeks. Months."

"'_Therapy'?_" echoed Emma, incredulously. "That wasn't therapy_,_ that was _torture._"

"It is the only thing that her condition responds to," the woman maintained, primly.

Emma's voice was cold. "What. Is. Her. Name?"

The nurse sniffed. "Marie."

"It is _not!_" hissed a voice, and Emma looked down to see the young woman snarling up at them. "_I am not!_"

The nurse shrugged. "Part of her delusion, you see. She doesn't even recognize her own name." She turned to the girl and spoke slowly. "Your name is _Ma-rie_, honey. _Ma. Rie._ Do you need more therapy time?" She did something with her hand that Emma couldn't see, and the girl folded into herself, sinking back against the wall, shaking her head in mute fear.

The woman's overbearing abuse of power made Emma's blood boil. "What did you say her delusion was?" she asked, curtly.

"Paranoia. Hallucinations. A distinct persecution complex."

"I can't imagine why," bit off Emma.

The woman refused to be baited. "She believes that everyone is lying to her, just to make her think she's crazy. Loony, no?"

Emma ignored her, crouching instead by the girl. "Marie? Can you look at me?"

The young woman's head was in her arms, and her voice muffled out from inside that safe cave. "My name isn't Marie. I've told you and told you, my name _isn't Marie!_" She broke off in a sob that threatened to become a full-blown fit, and Emma backed off.

"What _is_ your name, then?"

She shook her head, her whole body mimicking the motion. "Not Marie. Not Marie. I'm not Marie, I don't belong here, this isn't my world. I want to go home. I want to go home!" she wailed, raising a tear-ravaged face to Emma's. "I just want to go home, why won't anyone let me go home?"

Freaking out female was definitely not one of Emma's favorite things to deal with. She glanced up helplessly at the nurse, who had by now retreated to the far side of the room with her two goons and was sharing in the communal flask. Her single raised eyebrow eloquently stated that as Emma had started it, she could now deal with it.

Not-Marie clasped Emma's forearms, and her eyes held more than a spark of madness in them. "Can you help me go home? Can you? It's not here. Not this world. There aren't any fairies here. No magic. No magic, none, no spells. No way to get back… The evil queen locked it all away. It's all gone. She holds it all. All, all, all…" She suddenly dropped away, leaving Emma reeling for balance as she rocked herself on the floor. "Why can't I wake _up?_" she whispered. "If I could just wake up, this nightmare would be over. Why can't I wake up?" She thunked the heels of her hands into her temples over and over, tears leaking from her eyes as she murmured, "Wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up…"

Emma wasn't aware of moving away from the disturbing sight until she was beside the nurse. The woman took a swig and handed the flask back to its owner. "See what we have to deal with?" she asked, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. "It's disturbing, even when you've worked with the crazies for twenty years."

Emma eyed the rocking girl with trepidation. "Is she always like this?"

"More or less," the nurse shrugged. "Usually we keep her more sedated, but we can't try new therapies with her gorked out of her zork. You should come back when she's a little more out of it; she tells stories about her hallucinations - memories, she calls them - about 'life in the other land.' Funny as all get-out, it's like someone stuck a book of fairy tales in a blender and turned it on. Everything you thought you knew turned sideways. I ought to write 'em down and publish. What?"

Emma Swan was staring at her, incredulously. "Did you say 'fairy tales'?" she asked, but was distracted by another voice at the other end of the room.

"Belle?"

Mister Gold had snuck in while their backs were turned; Emma frowned. She'd warned the man to stay out of this, to not get involved. But he was most definitely not looking at her, all his attention focused on the young woman. His designer pants were getting soaked as he knelt beside her, but he didn't look as if he was capable of noticing. He reached out, touched her face, tenderly brushed back a curl of hair, cradling her cheek in his palm.

She leaned into him, eyes squeezing shut and brow furrowing with heartache. "It's not fair," she murmured. "Why are you only here when I dream?"

"But I am here," he said, voice so low and intense that Emma felt as if they were intruding on something private, almost sacred. "I _am _here, Belle. It's me." His voice cracked on the last word, his pain spilling out into the room.

The girl looked up at him, slowly, and then, just as slowly, shook her head. "It's not you. You're too human. I didn't get a chance to save you yet," she explained, gently, and turned her back on him.

A breath more eloquent than a cry of agony escaped his throat, and Mister Gold's face crumpled. Emma reached out towards him, but the aura of his anguish kept her back, so that she couldn't move further.

"Belle." His voice was creased with pain as he reached out to touch her. His hand lit on her shoulder, brushed back her hair. "Belle. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry…" He leaned forward, whispered in her ear. "I'm sorry that I never said this before now. But I love you. I love you, Belle. I love you."

"But I don't love _you_," she said, voice echoing weirdly off the wall in front of her. "I'm sorry, but there's only one man I love, and he's not a man. Not yet."

Gold's face crumpled in agony. His fingers retracted. "Then I'll… I'll go. I'm sorry, Belle…" he whispered unevenly into her ear. A single, hot tear fell from his eye, splashing on the bare skin of her shoulder.

He stood, shakily, and turned, one hand on the wall for support. He didn't see the young woman's hand come up, to touch the place where his tear had fallen.

He was halfway to the door when her voice stopped him. "Wait."

He stopped, but didn't turn, eyes pressed closed.

There were footsteps behind him, and a shaky voice in a familiar accent asked, "How…how did you know my name?" When he didn't answer, her voice became firmer. "How did you know my name?"

Gold took a deep breath. "Because it is more familiar to me than my own. Belle."

And he turned.

She was there behind him. The light from the windows fell on his human features as Belle lightly traced his cheekbones, ran her fingers across his brow ridge, slid her palm down his jaw line. "But you're human," she murmured, a trace of wonder in her voice. "How are you human?"

He turned his lips to her hand, capturing it with his own and pressing her palm to his kiss. "You did it," he told her. "A kiss can break any curse. The curse just needed me to realize it was over."

She wrapped her arms around him as he slid his arm about her waist. Belle's eyes were alight with awe and love, and Gold's reflected back reverence and adoration. The nurse started forward determinedly, but Emma grabbed her by the collar and held her back as Belle and Gold shared true love's kiss.

At last.


End file.
